WELCOME

Welcome to my blog. It is called Eaves-droppings because many of my short pieces arise from comments I overhear in public places. These comments trigger ideas, thoughts, recollections and even stories. Some are pure stimulus-response, stream of concsiousness reactions.

Cellphones have made my field of observation much richer.

I hope you will enjoy my wandering through public places.

Contact me at ronp70000@aol.com with your comments and observations.
Ron

Thursday, June 16, 2016

My latest book, EMPATHS, is now available on Amazon.com, CreateSpace.com and Kindle.



Empaths
Authored by Mr Ronald B. Pickett

List Price: $9.00
6" x 9" (15.24 x 22.86 cm)
Black & White on White paper
190 pages
ISBN-13: 978-1544866413 (CreateSpace-Assigned)
ISBN-10: 1544866410
BISAC: Fiction / Technological
This story is based on three recent scientific findings - that Empathy is a result of two genes, that genes can be changed by a technology called CRISPR and that the majority of people in prison lack the empathy gene. If we now have the capability to change a person's genetic makeup and return people to the human race, how can we not do that?
The ramifications of trying to bring this change to all eligible prisoners are enormous!

PBS.org released a video on Stacry today. Below is the link.

http://www.pbs.org/video/2365783464/


Stacey Thompson is a member of our Veteran's Writing Group (I have a cameo appearance.)

Wednesday, June 15, 2016

Requiem for the King



He didn’t play a guitar, and he didn’t sing or gyrate his hips; but he was Elvis and he was the King. Next Tuesday, if he survives the weekend, Elvis will be put down, that’s the kind of being put down that you don’t get up from. He stopped eating on Friday and his kidneys are failing so it’s the right thing to do. He’s 14 years old, that’s over eighty in dog years, so he has had a long and wonderful life. Far beyond what he might have expected when he arrived at the Bryant Castle as a small, shivering, black, miniature dachshund. He must have been Prince then, isn’t that what you are before you are a king? But he really didn’t look like he had much in the way of a royal pedigree. Short, soft, black with a tan underbelly, he quickly became the master of the manor, He was a replacement for the greatly loved, and obsessive compulsive Willy (short for Wilson Pickett, a dachshund of impressive personality and charm. The kind of dog that must be replaced quickly, to help ease the sting.)

Elvis, like his namesake had a weight problem, but how could you blame him? His favorite kibble was always right there in the stainless steel bowl on the kitchen floor. Crunch, Crunch, Crunch. While he hated to eat alone, he sometimes forced himself. For some reason, only knowable in the brain of a dog, he would drop each kibble on the kitchen floor tile prior to crunching it – a few crumbs would always find escape from his snout and drift to the floor.

A little extra weight usually isn’t a problem, look at me, but if you are a miniature dachshund, and you live in a place that has occasional snow in the winters like northern Virginia, a two-inch snowfall puts your belly right in the top layers of the cold wet snow – “Don’t know why these humans don’t just give us a litter box like the cats have. But they make you go out to ‘do your business,’ in the most terrible weather.”

There was never a question of who was “In Control.” Oh, the humans acted like he would do everything they wanted him to do. However, the reality was that the dog, the King, would do exactly what the humans wanted, as long as it was exactly what the King wanted to do. This dog could never be let out without a leash! Fourteen years and he still did whatever it wanted to do. A real King!

Elvis saw his career, his calling, his job security as protecting the estate from the potential ravages that could be visited on the premises by  - - -CATS! He could identify a potential intruder from several hundred yards away and would immediately launch into his warning barking and howling and an impressive assortment of other sounds. Sounds carefully designed to strike terror into any cat within miles. If he happened to be outside, all cats were in imminent danger of a deadly (laughably) attack from which they would be unlikely to recover. At least that’s the image he sought to project. The local cats knew better and laughed at him over their shoulder while sprinting to the nearest tree – never seen a cat laugh over it’s shoulder, oh yes, they do.

He had the same protective attitude about squirrels, which abounded in the nearby trees. They could prance along the tops of fences and dash up the sides of trees. They were never in any real danger from the sudden all-out attacks that Elvis initiated when he thought he might have had a slight tactical advantage. Elvis had a slightly bowed right rear leg, so his high speed dash had a little hitch and loping movement, but it didn’t slow him down much. He never had the slightest idea what he would do with a cat, or a squirrel if he caught one, that wasn’t the point, and it certainly didn’t curb his enthusiasm for the chase. He actually caught a cat once, but that’s another story.

Recently deer have stated working their way out of the woods and up the small creek in back of the house. When he saw them first he rushed at them. Another intruder to be taken care of. However, as he raced closer, these invaders were much, much bigger than the cats and squirrels. He skidded to a stop and reviewed his contract, nothing said about big game, so he decided that a peremptory bark of recognition would meet the expectations of his employer. And if they didn’t like it they could chase them away themselves.

Elvis is at the Lake house this final weekend. He loved to go to the lake. Lots of freedom, no leashes required and some unusual and interesting things to sniff and piss on. There is also a great deck with a lot of sun. I suppose he is lying on the floor fully immersed in the hot sun right now. He likely made a few tentative barks on arrival, just to let the locals know that he was back and in charge and he wouldn’t be putting up with any nonsense. But it would have been a meager and halfhearted bark; not likely to put fear into any locals.

He could always tell when they were packing for a trip to the lake. He would hide near the front door and as soon as it was slightly ajar dash out and stand by the door of the van, leaping in as soon as the door was opened. He certainly wasn’t going to be left behind. But there was another side to the lake, the dark side. While he was a great swimmer with his webbed paws, he could tell that there were wild things in the forest and the underbrush. He had explored everything when he first arrived at the Lake house several years ago, and he very quickly found that there were some strange and terrifying odors on the shrubs and brush. Reptiles, but not like the lizards he would occasionally eat at home. No these were different and scary. He also sometimes heard the sounds of bigger, wilder animals so he decided that his area of concern really didn’t have to be too far from the house.

I once calculated that he was asleep for eleven or twelve of his 14 years, but that was okay. He had an active dream life, although it was mostly limited to running after dream cats and digging for dream badgers. His upkeep has become pretty expensive as he has aged, most of his teeth are gone, and he spends an occasional day at the vets.

He was definitely a one-woman dog (not nearly as protective as Willy) but he tolerated other people - as long as they accepted the fact that he was the King! Farewell Elvis you have been a wonderful friend, companion and watchdog. You will be dearly missed.

Thursday, June 9, 2016

Neighborhood Watch


Neighborhood Watch (This was read at the So Say We All VAMP May 26, 2016)

It’s 6:30 AM, I can set my watch when I see her walk past my home. She has been doing this every morning since we moved here 12 years ago. One morning I was outside early and spoke to her. I said something about 12 years – she said no it’s over 25 years now. That was our only conversation – I watch her through my window.

You know how sometimes you only notice something when you are distracted? You suddenly discover that the picture has been there for months, or that a thing that had become a stable and certain part of your life is missing, gone. Now you wonder “where is it?” And when and why, mostly why you didn’t notice that it was gone.

It happened that way with her. Suddenly I noticed that I didn’t see her. It was 6:30 and she didn’t walk past my window at her usual fast pace. I waited, watching for several minutes until well outside her usual time slot and nothing, So, I noted that fact, in my brain, thought about entering it on my calendar but I really didn’t care that much – I really didn’t know her, not who she was,  not her name, not where she lived – oh, it must be up the road from me because 25 minutes after she passed going downhill she would reemerge going up, but that was all I knew.

She is not particularly attractive, somewhat athletic and on the one day I did talk to her, she seemed even more plain than I had imagined through my window – the male brain at work, even an old male brain. She seemed to be in her mid to late fifties, but that could be a wide miss.

When I first noticed that she wasn’t there, I had no idea how long it had been, was this the first day? Had it been a week? a month who knew? Was she on holiday? Was she ill? Would she be back in a few days? Had she moved – this is not a transient community. I began to actively wonder what could have become of her.

For the next few days I paid attention. I carefully watched at 6:30 and I made sure to start my watching at 6:25. Nothing, she definitely was not walking past my house any more.

Why did I care? What difference did it make? Her status was completely immaterial to my happiness, my wellbeing, my satisfaction, my future, my life. So why did I make certain that I was at my window every morning at 6:30 or really at 6:25 just to be sure?

Then it came to me – with all of the resources available to me, the internet, social media, search engines, my friends, people who have lived here for a long time, my knowledge of the neighborhood; I was at a loss about how to find out who she was, or is, or anything else about her. It was a sudden implosion of helplessness. And I don’t like that.

Across the lake, the one that is down the hill from my house, the lake that she passes every morning, or used to, a jogger was raped and murdered a couple of years ago. The perp was arrested and convicted and is awaiting execution.  But that kind of event changes the way you look at things; it reinforces the reality that there are really bad people in the world and denying that fact doesn’t make it go away. And it changes the way you perceive the world; it causes me to think about possibilities for my friend, no not friend, this woman who has interjected herself, unknowingly and unintentionally into my life.

It nags at me; what has happened, and how long has it really been since she stopped walking past my window. Two weeks, who knows? If it is a trip, a holiday, a vacation, she should be returning any day, but it could have been much more than two weeks.

I have a routine in the morning, two mugs of coffee, checking email and stocks, other things that take about an hour then I usually go to the gym to work out, I’m not a walker. The rest of my day is pretty normal, writing, painting, cooking, planning a trip, taking a nap. However, this change, this gap in my morning routine, not being able to watch the woman walk past is troubling, and no matter how hard I try, I can’t dismiss the feeling. Even the fragrant, steaming black coffee does little to dispel my sense of unease.

I decide to take a short walk to see if perhaps she has simply changed her route – although I think that is unlikely, we are such creatures of habit. Perhaps she has sustained an injury of some sort and is avoiding the hills.

I walk up the hill and around the block, the street nearest the lake, and I see nothing. I notice several other walkers; pairs, singles and small groups -  some with dogs, some for exercise, some for air, - one man who reads the newspaper, and drinks coffee and walks his dog. I nod, but I don’t say anything. I wonder if they notice too, but I don’t ask – what would I say?

Two more days pass, and she still hasn’t reappeared. I walk again, and this time I go further and stay out longer, hoping to see her ahead of me, or going in the opposite direction. But nothing, and I wonder what I would say if, make that when, I see her again?

One afternoon I decide to go out, not with the hope of seeing her, she never walks then, but the thermals in the afternoon make it possible for the turkey buzzards - the vultures, to fly and search the hills and the brush for food. They are out in force, making their fluttering orbits, never needing to flap their wings – marvelous flyers – shitty diet. If there was a large feast for them somewhere it would be easy to track them, to see the activity and frenzy. But nothing larger than a ground squirrel or a vole or a gopher is getting their attention, so I dismiss that possibility.

I check the homeowner’s association web site – nothing. I’m not surprised, only the occasional break-in, or spat between neighbors about the view being blocked finds its way there.

There is the continuing background niggling sense of loss. I must think; what can I do? Where can I look to try to find something out? I have great resources at my disposal, but I can’t figure out how to apply them. I check to see if names are available for the homeowners in our neighborhood and I find that they are. But I don’t have enough information to use the list. I don’t have an address, or a name or anything else – only an approximate location, not enough to be useful in a search.

The mailman might know! I see him one afternoon and catch up with him. I ask him if he knows the woman who walks early in the morning. He has a blank stare, shakes his head slightly, and says no. I know what he is thinking – “Why do you ask me? How should I know – I’m here in the afternoons not the mornings? And, why do you want to know, why do you care?” But he doesn’t say anything, he asks how my 300ZX is running – I think he would like to have it.

The feeling of loss intensifies, the feeling of lack of control increases, I have a constant sense of impending doom; of subtle dread. I begin to personalize my feelings, what if it was me that suddenly went missing. Would anyone notice, care, how long would it take, could they put together enough information to trace me? The mailman would remember, and he could give them my name – and close neighbors know me. But I only know her from the middle of her routine, not where she begins or ends her walk - that makes it a confusing mystery.

I’m at my desk, it’s where I belong, I’m comfortable here, it is an environment that I have created. I gaze out of the window and I’m suddenly brought back from my daze – there she is! I lurch back in my chair and almost fall over. I stand and my pulse races, I want to dash outside and talk to her, find out where she has been, tell her about my fears, my inability to trace her. Then reality emerges – she has no idea who I am, she would be surprised and probably worried about my attention, my “stalking” almost, but of course it isn’t really.

I decide I’ll walk for a few days, perhaps pass her going the other direction, nod, say hello - then perhaps engage her in a conversation. But, how will she feel? I retreat from my plan; I retreat from even considering approaching her. I walk for a few days and then return to my routine, email, coffee, the gym. And she will never know that for a few brief days, someone she doesn’t know exists was concerned about her, cared about her, wanted strongly to interact with her, she will never know – but I guess I will never forget.